secondhand smoke
by microfiber shoelaces
Summary: not a oneshot anymore. chpater two: Spike smokes, thinks about the mess his life's become, and is propositioned by an old friend and mentor.
1. secondhand smoke

**Author's note:** Vicious, he's not really a bad guy. Most people like to categorize him as this sort of...blood thirsty killer who has no compassion or mercy or...any sort of human emotion at all. A lot of people tend to forget, that actually Spike is the bad guy.

Now I mean, don't get me wrong; I love Spike. But it doesn't change the fact that he still royally screwed Vicious over. I mean, come on, he was his best friend...and I know, true love and all but still. I think Spike and Julia were meant for each other, but one really can't blame Vicious for getting angry.

Anyways, with that in mind...and a blatant disregard for other stories I should be working on (like Guidelines and a couple others not posted yet), I wrote this little one shot about Vicious and Julia.

also, my computer isnt working too well tonight so if the spacing is...odd...then I'm sorry and I'll fix it in the morning.

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**Second-hand Smoke**

microfiber shoelaces

Opening the door, a blast of stagnant lukewarm air hit him full in the face, carrying with it the scent of old Chinese food and smoke which stung his eyes. Narrowing them in distaste, he stepped inside the run down apartment and closed the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, the rain dripping silently off his coat to form puddles on the tiled entrance way. The sounds of the evening news turned way down low reached his ears, and he could see the doorway shaped blue light flicker on the wall opposite the entrance to his living room.

Vicious hung up his coat, and slipped off his shoes. He started down the small hallway towards the living room, but thought better of it and turned into the kitchen instead. He shed his suit jacket onto the counter, and made a mental note to wash it in the morning before the scent of blood filled the whole apartment.

Tucking wet hair behind his ear Vicious opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, and closed it again. He stood there for a few moments, listening to the sounds of a train wreck or an airplane crash or whatever, before putting it back. He opened one of the drawers next to the fridge and pulled out a black rubber band, using it to tie his hair into a small ponytail at the back of his neck. Closing the drawer, he opened a cabinet right above it and pulled down a blister pack of aspirin. He popped two and took them dry, then shut the cabinet and walked back out to the hall and into the living room.

Vicious changed living arrangements so often, that he never really had a chance to decorate. The sofa, the television, the curtains and paintings; all were standard issue. Everything in the room came with the apartment, including the scented candles that adorned the end tables. The only personal touches were a bowl of wilting roses on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and next to it, a gilt framed picture of the three of them smiling; the three of them when things had been good.

Julia was lying on the sofa watching TV with half-lidded eyes and a bottle in hand. Her golden hair, blue in the light, fell around her shoulders and over the pillow she was leaning against. Vicious walked over and sat on the other side next to her feet. Smiling, Julia lifted her head from the pillow and swung it around to face him. He stared silently ahead, watching the television set without actually seeing it.

Drawing her feet under her, Julia sat up and placed the bottle on the coffee table. She crawled over to Vicious on her hands and knees until their faces were an inch apart. Slowly, his head turned, and he stared her in the eyes. She smiled in that seductively dangerous way that she knew was the reason he liked her, and crawled into his lap. Vicious closed his eyes and ran his hands through her soft golden hair as she rested her chin on his shoulder and began nuzzling his neck. Running his fingers along her jaw, he spotted a small reddish mark he knew he had not made.

Vicious knew where she'd been tonight.

Closing his eyes again, he leaned back into the cushions and Julia began lightly kissing his jaw as she undid his tie. He exhaled, inwardly sighing.

"Julia..." he almost whispered, "Not tonight..."

She didn't stop, but instead captured his lips in a gentle kiss. When Vicious seemed to not want to deepen it, Julia sighed and rested her head against his chest. "Long day, huh?" she asked him softly. Vicious grunted softly in reply. "That's okay" she said as she reached her hand into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it with a lighter from the coffee table behind her, leaned her head against his chest once more, and closed her eyes.

Vicious stared down at the top of her golden head and lifted two fingers to rub away the pain between his eyes. Tilting his head back onto the top of the cushions, he breathed in deeply and hoped the second-hand smoke would kill him.

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The only thing that annoys me more than people who ask for reviews just to have reviews in their list and then get angry when they're criticized, is people who threaten to withhold chapters unless they get reviews, and then get angry when they're criticized. 

Sure, I love reviews as much as the next person, but I know I review very few stories so I don't really expect anyone else to do anything different.

If you have a correction, a comment, a flame or a word of praise, whatever...I'd love to hear it (doesn't that go without saying?). I'm a really harsh reviewer and critic, but I'm awful at editing my own stories, and I have no beta reader...so...if you see any errors or anything, please _please_ point it out...cause I really do like to speak properly and all that.

Hope you enjoyed...see ya around space cowpokes.

microfiber shoelaces


	2. the midas touch

Been a while since I posted..._secondhand smoke_ was originally gonna be a one shot, but this sorta seemed to fit in...mmhmm...

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**The Midas Touch**

by microfiber shoelaces

Spike thinks, that one reason he smokes, is because he knows it won't kill him.

Maybe, when he was younger, and first started, he had illusions about his prolonged death at the hands of toxin. The hacking and coughing, black lungs decrepit and shriveled. He would be hooked up to countless beeping machines that he didn't know about, lying in bed all day not being able to move. He'd undergo chemotherapy and all his wonderful green hair would fall out, growing back in like peach fuzz. Then one day in that hospital bed, he'd die. Maybe surrounded by friends and family. Mao, Annie, Julia, Vicious, Lin and Shin. Or maybe, he'd be all alone save the orderly, and the hospital would call Vicious while he is on some raid and tell him, and he would then tell Annie, who would cry, and then she would tell everyone else who would sigh, maybe, and say "What a shame."

But now, he knows that he will not die of lung cancer. Not when Vicious is just so goddamned smart and Spike is just so goddamned stupid.

He knows he should quit smoking, but the nicotine is just so relaxing and that's really what he needs right now. Relaxation. And, besides, he probably already has cancer already what with the amount of toxin he's breathed in his life time.

He knows he should stop seeing Julia, that one day she'll kill him. But Julia tastes so good and smells so nice. When he's around her, he's truly relaxed. But, like cigarettes, when he's not around her he feels more stress than ever.

Also, he figures, Vicious knows already, what with the length of time Spike's been seeing her.

He sees this knowledge in the way Vicious speaks. In his short clipped words. Vicious was never much of a talker, but although the quantity hasn't changed, the tone and intent has. The words are harsh and spoken in that...way...that Vicious has. Where he says things but really, you know, he's saying something totally different.

Spike turns his head to the side and releases the smoke from the side of his mouth. The wind carries it down over the roofs of buildings, into the atmosphere to become pollution, and one day when the clouds become heavy it'll be a few drops of acid rain, and give cancer to all the unsuspecting pedestrians that cross the streets of Tharsis City without a second thought. And then, Spike will have friends in his cold sterile hospital ward.

Spike knows he should stop seeing Julia. It was bad enough when Vicious had been at war on Titan and they'd been able to do it in secret, but now he is back in Tharsis and they couple is together all the time. The day after a secret rendezvous Spike is sure that Vicious can smell her scent on him, his scent on her when they make love that night or whatever it is that they do. He never had pictured Vicious as the lovey-dovey type.

Spike leans a little more over the rusting old railing on the roof of headquarters and thinks about how easy it would be to just fall over the edge. He taps the ashes off his cigarette and onto the far away street. _Ashes, ashes_, he thinks. _I'm slowly poisoning you all._

A few minutes later he tosses the spent butt over the railing and digs into his pocket for another. He pulls out his crumpled pack with much rustling and straightens out the box before removing one of the few cigarettes left. He clicks the lighter he found in his back jeans pocket, but it is out of fluid. He grumbles a sigh and pitches it lightly over the edge of the railing, where he is certain it will fall but even though he listens, the ground is so far below he does not hear it hit.

_I'm King Midas. I poison everything I touch._

Spike does not even so much as twitch was he hears a click behind him, even though it scares the living daylights out of him. He chews thoughtfully on his cigarettes and glances over his shoulder. A lit Zippo is dangerously close to his hair, and Spike follows the small tan hand to a blue suited arm, then to a padded shoulder, white starched collar with no-nonsense black tie, and finally a crinkled old face with dark black hair.

Spike leans forward a little and pinches the fag with one hand to steady it as he ignites the thin white stick with the chemically fueled flame. He takes a deep breath as the tan hand lights a cigarette for itself, then flicks the lighter closed with a practiced motion and tucks it back inside a breast pocket. Spike sighs around his cigarette, watching the noxious smoke dissipate until he can't tell it apart from the cloudy sky.

"Thought you'd told Annie you quit smoking?"

The wrinkles crease into a wide smile. "Yes, well...who are you to begrudge an old man one simple pleasure before he dies?"

Spike shrugs slightly and turns back around to stare at the drab city scenery. He feels the railing shudder slightly as the weight of another body leans on its unstable structure. It will rain soon, he thinks.

"Is there something I can help you with, Mao?"

"I've been doing some thinking..." Mao says absently. Spike listens closely; this is Mao-speak for "I have something extremely serious to tell you".

"I'm getting to be an old man, Spike," he continues. "I'm thinking of retiring...taking Pomona and the kids and just...getting away from all of this."

Spike exhales deeply. This isn't news, but it hurts all the same. Mao never did seem the type to be running a syndicate. He was a family man at heart, good to everyone in the organization and knew all their names too. Good enough to take in two rough necked young punks from the streets of Tharsis and give them a home. He had taken all means possible to keep his work from his wife and kids, and so far, he had been successful. And why shouldn't he be, when he already had two children in the syndicate already?

Spike knows Mao doesn't belong here, but he doesn't want his mentor to leave.

He thinks that maybe it's just because Spike knows what that means for his future, but, he doesn't admit that to himself. He begins to feel a light drizzle on his face.

"Spike, you're twenty-three. You're at your prime. The young lads really like you, and the old dogs respect you. You've got guts and good leadership skills...and when I go, I want you to follow me. I think this ragtag group really needs someone like you. A strong unmovable model to serve as our figurehead."

Spike spits the spent butt onto the ground beside him and grinds it into the tar of the roof with a booted toe. He is not flattered, because Mao does not do flattery. He is not surprised, because he somehow knew that it would be him, and he knows that in Mao's eyes he would be perfect for the job. In Mao's eyes. In almost everyone's eyes. Not in his own eyes. Not in Vicious' eyes.

And that was really all that mattered, right? Him and Vicious. Just Spike and Vicious. Even all those years ago when they were fighting to the death as rival street gang leaders, Vicious was all Spike could ever think about. Killing him. Putting a bullet between those cold grey eyes. And then, later, not being able to imagine a life without him. The immovable presence always at his back. Someone who understood him so completely without ever having to say a word. Someone who he finally understood at all.

In fact, he feels strangely cold and empty. Like a decision has just been made without his consent.

Mao flicks his half smoked cigarette over the railing. "I'll give you some time to think it over."

Spike does not look back as Mao turns and heads back into the building. He digs out another cigarette and discovers a Tharsis Hotel matchbook in his other back pocket. He attempts to light one, running it quickly against the rough side of the thin cardboard, but by now the rain is coming down more heavily and the match is soaked before he can spark a flame. He puts the matchbook back in his pocket and chews absentmindedly on the unlit cigarette. He watches the people on the street so far below until they are obscured by the settling dusk and early spring fog. He thinks about how easy it would be to just fall over the rusted edge, before he turns back towards the warmth and light and carpeted hallways, and walks inside.

_Everything I touch turns to gold._

_

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_Thanks for reading. Any errors I'd be happy to know...yeah?


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